Blank Canvas
by TrueHeroOfTime
Summary: He's like a canvas covered in dark scars and mystery, but I can't deny the fact that all I wish is to take a new brush, dip it in new paint, and make him utterly beautiful.


My toes are curling and uncurling where they are, placed against the floorboards. My head is supported by my arms, my arms supported by the back of the chair that I am sitting in. My feet barely touch the ground.

Damn summer. The rain has been relentless today. It was falling hard, like ice rocks hitting the roof with a clang. The streets outside are misty and gray. I was supposed to go to the park today to meet Yuiko, but I know that won't be happening anymore, considering. I have nothing to do. But I don't mind.

I like watching him paint.

I wonder if he notices. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth. His eyebrows are angled down into a frown, and his fingers are covered in red. He's making something for me.

The canvas isn't white anymore. I watched it, from the moment he set it down, to the moment he dipped his brush into the paint; I watched him destroyed the pure and perfect white of the canvas. It seemed like a real loss. I know it was out of character for me to say, but, I liked it better when it was blank and I think I would have liked it better if he had given it to me that way. I prefer it blank. Clean. Pure. A perfect opposite of my life. I half blame him for that.

But I'm not upset. I've been sitting him for more than an hour now. He makes a mistake, corrects it, and then changes his mind; it isn't planned. I asked him too, and I don't know why. I'll never admit it, because he always shoots me one of those creepy knowing smiles when I compliment him, but I really do love watching him paint. It's the first time I've asked him to paint something random for me. To make something beautiful, so that if I ever really did take it home, I could hang it one my wall and be reminded that he had done it for me as soon as I asked.

I wouldn't. I wouldn't do any of that. But I stilled wanted him to create something beautiful for me. He's good at that, though I'll never tell him so.

When I watch him work, I get lost in a world of my own. I feel my eyelids grow heavy, and my body relax, and I just stare at him, like I'm not really seeing him.

I am though. He's always on my mind. Not every second, but not a day goes by that I don't think of him. After so long, I don't even bother hating the fact that I'm sometimes so manipulated by his words.

Like the fact that I woke up to his soft touch this morning, and not once did I say anything about it. I was to overjoyed with the fact that he had come all the way over here, in the rain, just to wish me happy birthday.

I was angry with the fact that he had, but I let him have his way as took my hand and kissed it, and asked me if there was anything I wanted him to do.

I hated when he said stuff like that, because I knew that even if it was just any other day, he would still ask me the same thing. And my answer would be the same.

Just leave.

But I hadn't said that. I had asked him to paint for me. And he had. He still was. Hunched over, his brush creating beautiful shapes as I watched. And only one thought entered my mind.

He's like a canvas covered in dark scars and mystery, but I can't deny the fact that all I wish is to take a new brush, dip it in new paint, and make him beautiful.

I don't want to think it, but he isn't beautiful; not now. The scars will always be there. Carved into his skin, deep and grotesque. I hate it because its proof. Proof that he doesn't belong to me.

I don't care; I really don't. All I want to do it make him beautiful again. He had to have been once, right? I couldn't imagine him always like this. No one is.

He called me beautiful. Once, when it was raining and I had slipped in mud, and he had said that to me, but I didn't know why he bothers flattering me. I don't do it to him, and I never will. So I wish he wouldn't do it to me.

I think its just another one of his ways of telling me he loves me, without actually saying it. I'm not stupid; he may be mysteries and enclosed, but I can figure out quite a lot when I'm in the mood.

But I wish I could wash it all a way.

I wish I could take the canvas-him-and run it softly under a tap. Watch all the scars disappear down into the darkness and never resurface. Maybe then he wouldn't say he loved him, but then again, maybe he wouldn't still be here. I'm not sure how I would cope with that.

I only realize I've been staring when I big hand runs through my hair and catches my attention. I flinch away; partly because I don't want to get paint in my hair, and partly because of the fact that he did it in the first place.

He smiles at me but I don't smile back.

"It's finished." He whispers quietly and I'm glad his voice isn't loud.

I stop uncurling my toes, and slid backwards until I'm standing up, facing the back-to-front office chair. I move around it until my toes are centimetres from the canvas. I feel him move behind me, his hand rests softly on my shoulder with a touch I don't relinquish.

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

I don't like the colours; too many. And I don't like the size; too big. And I don't like the abstract shapes. I star at it long and hard, and finally come to a decision.

I hate it. I really, really hate it. I know what it is.

"Soubi…"

My voice trails off, small and unprotected… Full of emotion that makes me angry. I feel his fingers twist into my hair, and when I turn around, when his lips smother mine, I try to hide the emotion, but it spills out just like tears, washing over my closed eyelids and down my cheeks.

He tries to be gentle but it doesn't really work. I clamp my teeth down onto his lip and taste the blood. His lips will be swollen by the time I'm done, but its not as if it will be from passion; There isn't anything passionate about our kisses. They just sort of happen, and they always turn into something awkward.

He's too tall. I stand up on my tippy-toes to reach him. I've grown some, since I first met him. I'm fourteen now, but I still feel like that little twelve year old, with him always towering over me, so I guess it doesn't make a difference.

The kiss doesn't last long, because I don't allow it to. I could have pulled away, but lately, I've been feeling more and more weak and unsure, that, by the time that I understand its happening, he pulls away, flicking his tongue against my lips.

And I hate it. It's disgusting and so un-becoming of someone my age.

And its Soubi, and because its Soubi, I know why I allow it.

Because I want to re-paint him. I want to repair him, and make those filthy scars disappear. They're invisible, but they are still there, hiding behind Soubi's mask to protect themselves.

So I let it go on. Ignoring the fact that I like it is easy; I just think of the fact that he doesn't belong to me, because the scars across his neck will never disappear. But I still like to dream. I still have hope.

When it is over, it is Soubi that pulls away, and I am unsure of how long I let that go one, but I am panting hard and trying to suck in air as he offers me a small smile. My lips turn upwards and my fingers tighten in his shirt. He's shifted somehow: sitting on his knees with my body pulled close. He is hot and I accept his warmth.

Its not as awkward as it normally is, but, by the time I pull away, my eyes are already glued to the canvas lying on the ground.

There is no picture. I was somehow expecting a butterfly or something, but there is really none of that.

There is just a series of strokes and splotches and shapes with my name-Ritsuka-written beautifully in the middle of it all. I understand it the moment my eyes fall upon it:

It is the colours of my life. Its everything that has happened to me from the moment I forgot who I was to now. I understand what he's trying to say. I'm not Loveless; I'm Ritsuka. There are so many bright, catching colours, and that is why I hate it. I hate it because…because…

Because, despite my pushing and shoving and shielding towards him, to get him away, he knows me more than anyone else. He knows me more than I had ever wondered. It is almost scary, that I feel the tears of emotion tickling my eyelashes.

I don't turn to him. I can't look at him, but I want to do anything but stand there and pretend that I am not grateful.

So I do the one thing I wished I could've done from the start: I take another of his canvas, and I pick up a used brush, and I paint.

And I don't stop. I paint and paint and paint until my wrists hurt, but I don't stop; I never stop.

I won't stop until I have everything single emotion of mine down that I feel towards him. Starting from black, until the canvas is nothing but shades of purple and blue.

Blue for my trust; and purple for my love.

Because, despite the fact that I try to ignore it, I know there is only one way to whiten up his canvas.

And that is my love…

The love I know exists.


End file.
